


Long Slow Road

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 18:06:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Shuuzou doesn’t miss the third surgery.(nba!tatsuya x nhl!shuu)





	Long Slow Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> i owe more of this fic to you than usual 
> 
> same verse as [Sharp Angle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10767654), [Goal Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10906419), [par four](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10934397), and if not the same verse than a similar one to [after midnight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11340012)

Shuuzou’s not there for Tatsuya’s first knee surgery because Tatsuya’s twenty-six and they don’t know each other yet and at the time it doesn’t seem like a big thing, a repair of something that’s been nagging Tatsuya all season long (and it’s a lost, playoff-less season for the Knicks). Shuuzou’s not there for Tatsuya’s second knee surgery because he’s got a game in Anaheim; he tells Tatsuya that if he wants to put it off, if he needs Shuuzou to take some time away from the team, and Tatsuya tells Shuuzou he’s the captain and schedules it for the earliest slot possible, smack in the middle of the Devils’ second trip west. Shuuzou might be the captain but Tatsuya comes first, bum knee and all, but they’re already fighting about this and Shuuzou doesn’t need to ask Alex twice on the phone if she’ll come out and take care of him (because Tatsuya, still, won’t fucking ask).

He spends the whole game in Anaheim half-numb on the bench thinking Tatsuya, Tatsuya, Tatsuya, knee, anesthesia, cartilage, tendons, muscle, bone; he’s a minus-two and he shouldn’t be out on the ice but the Devils win anyway, two goals from the fourth line and a penalty shot by a defensive defenseman, shit they shouldn’t be depending on but that they have to if they want to be in the playoffs at all, let alone go anywhere.

Shuuzou doesn’t miss the third surgery, a year and change later; even if the Devils hadn’t been swept out of the first round by a merciless Columbus team that looks finals-bound right now but could very well sputter out Shuuzou wouldn’t miss it (Tatsuya would kill him, still high and half-asleep, with just one look from that piercing eye of his, but it would be fucking worth it). They’d been headed here all season, the illusion of recovery falling away faster than Tatsuya could paste it back up against the wall, the surgical glue holding Tatsuya’s knee together tearing even more with every jump shot, every fast break, every hard dive to the ball, until he’d been held out of games and then practices and Shuuzou had come home to see the swollen purple mass of flesh next to Tatsuya’s very normal left knee every night, the way he’d still pretend (after all this) that it didn’t hurt, despite the copious amounts of OTC painkillers he’d stuff down his throat. And then he’d been shut down, given a second opinion, a third; they’d all said more surgery was inevitable; they’d all said even with the best surgeon he’d still need a knee replacement by the time he hit fifty and he might be too much of a liability to play pro ball again (if he physically could get that far) what with all the scar tissue and the range of the tears.

It’s his fucking walk year, too; he might as well get the medical shit taken care of while he’s under contract and medical care is covered by the union dues that come out of his checks (he’s got enough money in the bank to take care of it, but still) and so, after sitting out the rest of the futile year on the sidelines in a suit Shuuzou has to sometimes help him get on, Tatsuya submits his leg to the surgeon’s knife once again.

Shuuzou’s just signed a two-year extension to his own contract with the Devils, an affair that had been simple and clear on both sides. They think they can go somewhere with him as captain; he wants to win in the only place he’s really been allowed to stick around. He might have been able to get more money elsewhere; the Oilers are hurting for physical forwards and Phoenix is abysmal at the dot and a so-called young team in need of veteran leadership, but even if Shuuzou was interested in leaving for hockey reasons at all (which he’s not; Jersey’s his home and this is his team and that’s what it is) he wouldn’t. Tatsuya’s not leaving New York; maybe he would if that was the only place he could play basketball but he’s got his nails dug into the city concrete and let it dry around them, sticking his hands in place.

Shuuzou waits in the waiting room of the surgeon’s office, one of the Knicks’ medical staff (Shuuzou’s a little hazy on his exact title; he knows these people too well but not that well) two chairs away from him, poking emails across the touch screen of his phone. Shuuzou’s too nervous for the phone, messages asking about Tatsuya and the surgery already, even notifications about successful autopay of his bills and emails about clothing sales are not particularly welcome. They’re just momentary distractions that don’t even work, from this and from Tatsuya, how much pain he’s been in, how much pain he’s going to be in for the next however long (forever, probably, but how that’s going to be managed, how a little more or less today could mean more basketball tomorrow and more surgery the day after. Shuuzou glances at the medical person out of the corner of his eye. He wonders how much those people have guessed or gossiped about the nature of Shuuzou’s relationship with Tatsuya, if they just take them at their word that they’re good friends (different from the way Tatsuya introduces Taiga as his brother even though everyone knows they’re not blood-related, still close enough to drive him home from the hospital when he could be at his mom’s house in LA or on vacation at some tropical beach right about now). It’s no use worrying; it is what it is—they’re careful. Shuuzou clasps his hands in his lap.

Tatsuya’s still pretty drugged up when they let him go home, kind of high and very sleepy; Shuuzou’s already glad they’d filled the prescriptions early; Tatsuya’s probably going to fall asleep before they get home and he’ll be fine but Shuuzou doesn’t really want to leave him when he’s like this, even looking at him as they get out to the car (Shuuzou thanks his lucky stars again for the street parking planets aligning that morning; not only could he find a spot but he hasn’t been boxed in by supersize SUVs on either side and no one’s dented his bumpers). Tatsuya eases into the front seat, fumbling with the seatbelt; he casts a reproachful eye to Shuuzou when he offers a hand.

He does fall asleep in the car, seat pushed back as far as it will go until it’s scraping the rear row. The drive through the park isn’t all that bad at midday; it’s still crowded with clueless tourists (carting their young kids on spring break around, no doubt), out of state plates from New England, more than usual. Shuuzou keeps the air conditioning on low; there’s too much fucking pollen to roll down the windows and it’s blowing up against the windows as they sit waiting for the light. Cars are honking; a cab swerves going the other way; Tatsuya’s head is leaned against the window. His hand is loosely in Shuuzou’s on the console, still as soft as ever.

Shuuzou doesn’t want to wake him up when they get into the garage but he has to; Tatsuya’s a lot less contentious about it, a little less asleep than Shuuzou had thought he was. Shuuzou settles him into bed and finds the pills, antibiotics and Vicodin and Motrin—the doctor had said to give him something before the anesthesia wore off, hadn’t specified which painkiller but Tatsuya’s just had surgery on his fucked-up, achy knee. Shuuzou’s going to try to get him to take the Vicodin first.

“How you feeling?” he says, quiet, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Tatsuya still looks sleepy, so much younger than thirty-four, younger than Shuuzou’s ever seen him outside of pictures and videos (Tatsuya, twenty, leading USC to the Sweet Sixteen, the first time Shuuzou had seen Tatsuya and had no idea it was him, forgot it all until later, a footnote of his college hockey team’s March Madness pool, a school Shuuzou had picked to go farther than its seed and matchups would dictate because of its pretty point guard and not much else), his lips slightly parted and his hair all mussed up. Tatsuya nods, slowly, a while after Shuuzou asks.

Shuuzou shakes a couple of the Vicodin onto his palm and holds them out. “Take these.”

Tatsuya doesn’t ask what they are; he squints a little but takes them, placing them on his tongue and swallowing down half his glass of water, spilling it down his chin. He pats Shuuzou’s side on the bed and, well. He needs to answer some text messages and stuff first, but a nap’s looking pretty good right now.

* * *

The minute Tatsuya’s cleared to put weight on the leg he does (fifteen days, he says, spits it like a curse, more venom than Shuuzou’s ever heard him swear with; it was supposed to be fourteen but of course he’d cut corners, said he was feeling fine, took maybe one and a half more doses of the Vicodin and only about half the Motrin) and if Shuuzou spoke in amusing, fitting clichés he’d say Tatsuya hit the ground running. He does every exercise he’s allowed to and then some, more than he should, but all he can see is the leg muscles already deteriorating, the months slipping away, turning into times he’s going to have to prove himself all over again. 

“Talk to me,” Shuuzou says, and Tatsuya turns away, shrugging; he stands up from whatever exercise he probably shouldn’t be doing.

“What do you want me to say?”

Anything, anything that would lessen the tension, that would slow him down a little bit, but that’s like asking a tidal wave to say anything that would make it stop when it hits the shoreline. Talking’s not going to help Tatsuya; pushing Tatsuya to talk isn’t going to help either of them, and this isn’t something Shuuzou really knows how to handle. They’d gotten through the last injury with Shuuzou on the road and Tatsuya pissed off and withdrawn and wound so tightly back at home, a temporary stop on the way to this total breakdown.

“I don’t know,” Shuuzou says. “What you’re feeling, what you need to talk about.”

He wants to reach over and massage the tension out of Tatsuya’s shoulders the way he’s done so many times, but this time he knows Tatsuya would jerk away, see it as Shuuzou trying to get under his skin and dig something out Tatsuya isn’t prepared to show him yet.

“I’m okay,” Tatsuya says, a lie he’s repeated a thousand times since the surgery, as if saying it so much would make it real.

He doesn’t go back to his exercises until Shuuzou leaves the room, but going back, telling him not to, telling him he’ll reinjure the knee and need more surgery, is less than pointless. Saying it is mean and a little patronizing, as if he hasn’t fucking figured it out (or at least that’s how Tatsuya will take it). Tatsuya knows it damn well, but that doesn’t mean he can sit patiently and wait for his body to heal and it doesn’t mean he won’t push the limits like he always has because that’s the only way he knows how to be with basketball, the same singular devotion and love burning fierce at the center of a coil like the light in a toaster inside of him (Shuuzou would be jealous but he can’t compete with that, won’t compete with that) the thing he’s loved longer than Shuuzou, or Alex or even Taiga. He loves it so fiercely, his teeth sunk into it like a mold of his jaw; he’s let it determine his self-worth as a person for so long that telling him that, that he needs to stop, would have no effect. Tatsuya will always push, and push; it’s entrenched in who he is; it’s the only way he’s ever gotten results, dragging his worn-out body down the court again and again since years before Shuuzou had ever walked by the street courts Tatsuya had learned the game on.

There’s no answer to this, no way Shuuzou’s going to forcibly stop him; even if Tatsuya reinjures himself he’s just going to go right back out there, harder than he should, faster than he should, grabbing onto every inch ahead of him.

* * *

They can’t go golfing this summer, and Shuuzou doesn’t really want to go out to the range by himself. He could call his teammates or something, but doing it with them instead of Tatsuya (rather than golfing with Tatsuya and getting wasted before they’re halfway through, touching each other inappropriately but it’s the middle of the day and too hot for golfing in the swamps of Jersey for most people so who gives a shit, and then golfing with his teammates the next day, buying extra pork roll sandwiches on the way over and eating them all and waiting for this time to be the time they work as a hangover cure-all) feels like betrayal; it’s not something he wants to do (he’s just going to think about Tatsuya, at home, exercising too much or taking another nap, open bottle of some kind of painkiller on the end table because the more he does the more he hurts and the more he takes so he can do more and hurt more, or he’ll think about Tatsuya last summer, hitting balls wide with his bum knee and swearing loud and harsh into the wind, leaning on Shuuzou’s shoulder pretending he’s drunker than he is).

Still, he’s got to stay in shape in the offseason; Tatsuya’s got a gym membership he can siphon off; most of the fitness gurus and out-of-work actors who man the desk don’t know too much about hockey so the name Himuro sounds about right to them. Sometimes he lifts weights; sometimes he runs and does leg presses; sometimes he swims laps but the pool’s always pretty crowded. Sometimes he thinks about the golf glove at the bottom of his equipment bag, about maybe when Tatsuya’s better—as better as he’s going to get, anyway—maybe going out to the range in the fall, or Chelsea Piers if it’s too late in the year.

He’s never actually gone golfing there; he’s never had much of a reason and he doesn’t live in the city. Or maybe he does now; maybe for some technical statutory reason he’s stayed on this cramped little island long enough to pay taxes or whatever. He’s been back to Jersey to pick up the mail, early birthday card from his sister and bills he’s set up for autopay, but the last time he’d spent the night had been the night before game two, and holy shit. This is his house, if not the place he thought he’d always live, then at least until retirement and then whatever followed immediately—with Tatsuya, hopefully, but, well.

Tatsuya’s never going to leave the city; Shuuzou had thought briefly to offer to let him stay out in Jersey while he was injured, but Tatsuya needs the polluted city air to breathe; he needs to be somewhere comfortable and familiar to him. He doesn’t need to be out someplace where he needs to drive if he wants to go further than a few feet, not with a busted leg, no matter how familiar the place has become to him since he’s been seeing Shuuzou. And even if there’s something for the two of them, together, after retirement (and Shuuzou hopes there is; they’ve never talked about it except in the vague sort of way younger men talk about things they can’t see happening to them, only to other people, but all of a sudden it’s staring Tatsuya straight in the face and Shuuzou can’t look away) then it almost has to be in the city. Compromise comes from both sides, but they’re both pretty fucking stubborn, and Tatsuya’s probably inclined to be especially stubborn on those grounds.

And it’s not like Shuuzou has any real opposition to the city, just a sort of sense that that’s how everybody does things, settle down and move out to the suburbs where there’s space—it’s not how his parents had done things, sure; they’d gone city to city the same way Tatsuya’s parents had, the same way Tatsuya has. You move to the suburbs for your family, supposedly, but Tatsuya’s his family. Sure, having a dog in an apartment is hell, but they don’t need to have a dog, or a horse or whatever large animals his teammates from rural Manitoba miss (or the fucking deer that seem to be the unofficial state animal of New Jersey, grazing on people’s gardens and terrorizing drivers on country roads and suburban streets and highways). If they have kids—another topic that hasn’t been breached at all, something wholly impractical while they’re both still professional athletes anyway, but maybe someday, another thing Shuuzou hasn’t really thought about more than vaguely (does he even want kids at all?), Tatsuya or no—they won’t get to tote them around in a minivan full of chip crumbs or have them play around in the yard with the dog or whatever (though those weren’t things either Shuuzou or Tatsuya had gotten or even wanted as kids, nothing Shuuzou at least feels like he’d missed out on), but they can take them to the park to ride their bikes and buy bagels on the way back. They can buy an apartment, put a down payment on a place with a river view and a subway stop two blocks away and complain about the maintenance and having to walk to the parking garage, and is there much of a contest, if it was ever up for discussion in the first place? If Tatsuya even wants anything like that? If he’s even officially moved in?

They’ve been together more than seven years; some couples reach this phase a few months in. Shuuzou’s spent summers basically living in Tatsuya’s apartment, his offers to cover half the rent always rebuffed (he tries to make up for it, anyway, treating Tatsuya to more drinks and dinners, buying more groceries); they take vacations together—despite how little they’ve talked about a concrete future, Shuuzou has no doubt that Tatsuya wants this, not as a temporary thing.

Tatsuya’s fresh out of the shower when Shuuzou gets back, and Shuuzou wants to talk about all of it all at once, mortgages and cats batting their paws at the window screens and shared bank accounts and kids, but that’s too much. There’s no timeline for that, only an idea that’s taken hold of Shuuzou for the moment. They don’t know when that kind of future’s going to be closer to the current reality, but tomorrow is pretty damn close to sure.

Tatsuya looks at Shuuzou like he knows something’s up; his fucked-up knee is just under the folds of the towel around his waist, probably intentionally so; he leans into the kiss Shuuzou’s about to give him. Shuuzou’s hands fall loosely around his waist, thumbs grazing at the water that’s still there.

“What if I moved in? Here, with you?” (There, he’s said it.)

“What about your place in Jersey?”

“I’ll sell it,” says Shuuzou. “Market’s good. I’ll pay half the rent here; I got a job.”

Tatsuya hums against his mouth, decisive, affirmative; Shuuzou wants to hear the word from his lips, though.

“Of course, Shuu.”

“Could have asked me before,” Shuuzou says, wrapping Tatsuya into his arms, kissing his ear.

“You could have asked, too.”

* * *

Tatsuya comes back from his doctor’s appointment the last week in July annoyed, like if he weren’t Tatsuya he’d be scowling and crossing his arms. He’s got his own way of pouting, body sinking into a chair like a sandbar with the tide, and Shuuzou doesn’t have to ask for him to share his misery.

“Setback. A week or so, I should keep off it as much as possible. Not necessarily crutches, but.”

Shuuzou’s not going to say anything about overdoing it on the stretches or exercises. He just leans forward, clasping his hands in his lap.

“I guess I…I don’t know,” says Tatsuya.

“I know you want to get back out there. It’ll happen. Trying to rush it won’t make it happen any faster.”

“I know,” says Tatsuya, a whining, hardened edge to his voice. “But I can’t goddamn do anything else.”

They’ll have to, since Alex is visiting next week, a much-needed diversion for both of them from the monotony of Tatsuya’s physical therapy and Shuuzou’s solo training. She loves to do the tourist shit neither Tatsuya nor Shuuzou had fully embraced, Shuuzou because living in Jersey he’d never gotten around to much of it and Tatsuya because he’d been acting acclimated and above it all since his first day here.

The streets look and smell like wet hot garbage; Tatsuya’s knee is cleared the second day Alex is there and they trek downtown to Wall Street, then walk back up and wander through Chinatown, eating lunch at some tiny dumpling place Shuuzou’s never going to remember the name of, the streets narrow and crowded even when most of the city is emptied out, too hot for the people who don’t have escapes elsewhere to venture out of air-conditioned apartments, or the libraries and movie theaters and other cool venues they can loiter in for a few hours.

They get dragged up the Empire State Building (that’s still crowded, even now) and through the smog they can see the island spread out before them, the crisp green of the park, the ugly twisted towers of modern architecture, the rows of thick prewar structures of brick and concrete in lines where they’re still standing.

Alex is the one who points out their apartment building, somehow visible from a certain angle.

“That’s home, huh?” says Tatsuya.

“Home,” Shuuzou echoes, catching the corner of Tatsuya’s eye.

They get back an hour and change later; Tatsuya’s trying to hide how tired he is already but they’re all pretty beat; they’ll make dinner with what they have or go out (Tatsuya draws the line at tourist restaurants, proximity to Times Square or no, but there’s plenty right by them) but they can all take naps, Shuuzou’s head resting on Tatsuya’s chest.

Tatsuya’s still asleep when Shuuzou wakes up, his leg out from under the covers and his knee looking pretty close to normal but for all the scarring. Shuuzou eases off the bed; his bad shoulder’s aching today, fucking tweaked it on the rowing machine yesterday. Nothing bad, if he gives that shit a rest for a few days, which will be easy to do with Alex around (tomorrow they have the zoo and the botanical garden, probably better as a car trip but Shuuzou doesn’t mind spending time on public transit if it’s with the two of them). Alex herself strolls into the kitchen, half-dressed, when Shuuzou’s getting a pot of coffee ready. Neither of them is awake enough to talk much at first, Alex cleaning off her glasses on the hem of her camisole, Shuuzou double-checking the clock on the coffeemaker.

The scraping, gurgling sounds of percolation split the silence (as it were; when Shuuzou pays attention, he can hear the strains of music from the street, cars honking and swerving, alarms sounding, the things his mind knows by now to tune out) and Alex sighs.

“Do you think he should retire?” says Shuuzou. “You—I mean, that was different, but.”

“Yeah, it was,” says Alex, her lips curving into something more reminiscent of a grimace than a smile. “There weren’t too many options; it was just I couldn’t see well enough to keep playing. It wasn’t like I’d go blind by thirty if I kept it up, but if it was, well. I was a hell of a lot younger; I would have stayed if I could. Even if it had happened when I was older—I mean, what would you do?”

Shuuzou pauses. He’d compared the situation to himself early on, but then found them too non-analogous to continue. He’d gotten a warning after the last concussion, about all the things he’s been doing to his head, the shit he hasn’t told anyone about (like how his ears were still ringing when they’d brought him back from the one three years ago, the bad hit to his head all the way back in middle school he knew he had to fucking play through, everything that’s added up to the way his brain bounces in his skull now) that they know has probably happened somewhere along the line. But that had been different; he’d been okay to go back, all cleared twenty times over (they all love to give the staff shit about following the new concussion protocols to the letter even though they know the reasoning, but not playing when you feel like you should, you want to, you have to well—that’s pretty close to what Tatsuya’s feeling now, isn’t it?) and he hadn’t had people telling him he physically couldn’t skate, couldn’t put the puck in the net, that he’d have to wait months just for a chance to be reevaluated. But if he were Tatsuya, right now—he wouldn’t give in. He’d hold out against the tide, as long as he could. He’s known that much for a while now.

“I don’t necessarily agree with it,” says Alex. “But Tatsuya’s done a lot of things I don’t, and it’s a decision he has to make.”

“I know,” says Shuuzou. “I just.”

The coffeemaker sputters. Shuuzou doesn’t want him to bank on a dead-end road, doesn’t want him refusing help as he tries to pull himself out of another ditch. But Tatsuya would never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t try.

Alex pats his hand. “I know. You love him; it’s hard.”

That’s not all of it; there’s no way to say all of it. Shuuzou’s pouring them coffee when Tatsuya comes out, limping just a little; Shuuzou grabs his favorite mug from the dishrack and pours him a cup.

“It’s good, Shuu, thanks.”

Tatsuya leans against Shuuzou slightly, and Shuuzou pulls him closer. Across from them, Alex’s face relaxes as she sips her coffee.

* * *

Taiga and Shougo’s latest compromise is half the summer in LA, half in Toronto (when it gets too hot, which Shougo complains is all the time). Tatsuya usually takes Shuuzou with him when he visits, but this summer Taiga’s insisted on visiting the two of them, and since they have an extra bedroom Shuuzou’s not really complaining.

“I’ll be fine,” Tatsuya says, though Taiga looks absolutely unconvinced (he needs a fucking poker face). “By the middle of the season I’ll have a job.”

Shougo opens his mouth to push it further; Taiga elbows him and Tatsuya catches the gesture; his gaze flickers to it but he doesn’t lean any farther into Shuuzou. There’s tension in his hand, though; it’s running through his shoulders like a wire whose voltage has just been upped. The subject switches to hockey, which Taiga’s probably grateful for even though he remains as uninterested in the sport as he can be, as close to Tatsuya and Shougo as he is.

The kitchen’s not big enough for all four of them, so Taiga and Tatsuya cook while Shuuzou and Shougo sit in the living room, drinking whichever beer Tatsuya’s gotten from the grocery store (some hipster west coast IPA, as usual). Just sitting around and shooting shit with Shougo is actually pretty easy; Shuuzou finds himself thinking, maybe almost as much as he thinks it about Tatsuya, that Shougo should have been a hockey player (he fights like one; Tatsuya hauls off and decks guys sometimes but Shougo’s always in the middle of scrums, emerging victorious to throw a punch just as hard again; he’s a born brawler), that if he’d found the game earlier—well, growing up without much money in a country with a neutral attitude toward hockey and a city where you don’t get much ice, could he have gone anywhere with it? They’d been at the same middle school, winning championships at nearly the same time, their paths almost, but not quite, intersecting—everyone knows those Teikou boys, seven NBA players and all that fucking hardware among them; people forget outside of the odd bit of trivia that they’d sent Shuuzou to the NHL and Kubota to the KHL, too, although Shuuzou’s got enough recognition to deal with as it is. Still, from the sounds of things Shougo’s middle school experience had been shitty for reasons entirely different than Shuuzou’s, and if only—Shougo wouldn’t be the guy he is now, tattoos well above the collar of his shirt, below the hemlines of his sleeves, hair grown out so his grey roots are showing just a little, well-clipped thumbnail scratching at the label on the beer bottle.

Shougo had been a little standoffish the first few times Shuuzou had met him, not in the same way as Taiga, clearly wary like a cat of someone new in the house who’s not providing him food. As much as Taiga trusts Tatsuya and his judgement, he hadn’t been ready to give Shuuzou his blessing quite yet, which as a brother Shuuzou supposes is fair (though he might not be close enough to his younger siblings to still have that right anymore if he ever did). Tatsuya had never claimed to be especially close to Shougo, but Shuuzou had asked all the same and Tatsuya had laughed.

“Shougo’s a fan of yours, you know.”

“I thought you said he was a Leafs guy?”

“Yeah, well,” Tatsuya had said. “He likes the way you play; he likes that you’re from the same place, same school. And even if you were some scrub for the Habs, you’d still be a real live NHL player dating his boyfriend’s brother, so he’s a little starstruck.”

“Oh,” Shuuzou had said.

Things had made a little more sense, and knowing that Shougo didn’t totally hate him Shuuzou had reached out a bit more to him and he’d opened up, just a bit at a time (and it is obvious, now that Shuuzou knows what to look for, that Shougo does look up to him, as a half-reformed sports brawler and apparently as a person, too). He’s still a little prickly, rough; he’s still hard around the edges, but less than his appearance would suggest (the tattoo most recently added to his chest, circling the base of the large Canadian flag, an oversize red koi with tiny forked eyebrows—well).

“Why not just stop dying the grey?” Shuuzou says. “You’d look distinguished. Silver fox.”

Shougo snorts. “That’s what Taiga says.”

“He’s got a vested interest,” says Shuuzou.

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t seem that distinguished when you go grey at eleven.”

Shuuzou shrugs.

“Besides, they call me old man too fuckin’ much already.”

“They can see your roots.”

“Hey, fuck off.”

Shuuzou shrugs again, sipping his beer (God, this has to be like seven or eight percent; Shuuzou knows he’s a fucking lightweight but he’s going to pass out on the couch if they don’t eat soon).

The subject of Tatsuya’s injury, potential retirement, inability, seems to be on the horizon most of dinner, whatever Tatsuya and Taiga had talked about in the kitchen, rising to the surface but sinking back down with the churn of the conversation.

* * *

Tatsuya dials it back a little bit, but he’s still going hard; he’s still watching as much video as he ever has, himself five years ago, eight years ago, either trying to figure out all the moments of landing on his right knee that had added up to a torn meniscus, the way he’d stepped and the way he’d jumped, the way he’d landed from a block. There’s nothing particular about the right one that’s different from the left, at least that Shuuzou can see, but he still doesn’t get the subtleties of basketball; he enjoys watching Tatsuya (Tatsuya’s basketball is accessible even to people like him, smooth and fast, flashy shots and steals) even if he’d prefer to watch him in person, now, rather than on a screen, frozen as his past pre-injury self.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “Do you think.”

He doesn’t complete the question, doesn’t end it with an intonation of anything other than a statement. Shuuzou turns down the volume and waits.

“Do you think I should just retire?”

Tatsuya’s still staring at the screen, not at Shuuzou; Shuuzou watches him in profile, the focus of his eye, his bangs on the other side so long they touch his nose, the way his lips are pursed so slightly if Shuuzou wasn’t so used to looking at them he wouldn’t notice. Tatsuya’s not seriously considering the question; he’s going to do whatever the hell he wants regardless and that’s not going to be giving up in August after spending all summer, all of his life, pursuing this. Shuuzou opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

There’s an answer Tatsuya wants to here; he’s both daring Shuuzou to say yes, he does think it (even though he doesn’t really on most levels) and daring him to say the right answer, the correct choice in an open-ended question (the kind Shuuzou had always hated in school). Shuuzou doesn’t know what the right choice is, though.

“No,” he says. “Keep going.”

He turns up the volume; Tatsuya’s face turns more toward his, unreadable as it had been to Shuuzou the first time they’d met.

* * *

Shuuzou’s almost forgotten how good the first morning skate feels after a summer off, how right the ice feels under his blades, how the minute a teammate sends him flying into the boards everything feels so right. Every year the kids keep getting younger; it’s almost impossible for Shuuzou to think of himself as ever that young and confused and intimidated but it’s a good reminder to take responsibility and not goof off, act a little stricter even when he’s in the weight room. A couple of the new guys, draft picks or AHL kids who have never made it this far (there’s so many of them Shuuzou can’t keep track) are staring at him in what might be awe, the way they used to stare at other guys, the way Shuuzou used to stare. It’s too fucking surreal, and Shuuzou thinks about texting Tatsuya about it, except.

That’s probably been going on with Tatsuya already, his big-time college career and permanent fixture in the NBA since then, young kids imitating his slick jumper and fast passes (he’s got those kind of moves). It’s the kind of thing he’d miss, and, well, they can’t just go on not talking about Shuuzou’s career, but maybe not this, not now.

When he gets back on the ice, definitely not now. The rust is off; he’s not sore like hell the way he will be tomorrow and after that and most of the season; he feels like he’s flying, like he’s never skated so well. The ice is home, as much but in a different way as Tatsuya is; hockey is home; hockey is—not everything, but a damn good chunk of it. Saying he loves it feels like an empty platitude; it’s in his bones and all his muscle memory, like how walking just doesn’t feel quite right when he’s in the middle of the season and skating all the time. He doesn’t love hockey the same desperate way Tatsuya loves basketball, even, but he’s still able to shake off all the reporters who skirt around the questions of retirement, 35-plus contracts; he can’t imagine, even with another concussion and his shoulder even more twisted and fucked up, people telling him to retire and giving in without a fight. There’s logic when applied to other people (people he loves especially); there’s less when it’s himself. And Tatsuya’s in so much physical pain now, might be in the future even after all of this, but he’s in worse emotional pain, the whole world telling him to give up on basketball, that he can’t anymore.

Maybe it’s like whatever had happened when Tatsuya was a teenager, two decades peeled back to the things he and Taiga and Alex clam up about, the things that had helped build up the huge chip on Tatsuya’s shoulder, the voice in his head that tells him he’ll never be good enough, the voice Shuuzou’s never quite known how to combat even though he’s been trying (the voice that’s seemed not quite so strong of late, not until this). Tatsuya deserves better than this; Shuuzou can’t bear to see him in this much pain.

He’s still thinking about it after practice, his mind going a little numb from exhaustions as he tries to catch up with the coaches and think about the bits and pieces he’d seen from all the rookies, which veteran guys look readier. He’s planning on heading straight home afterward, to Tatsuya, to whatever this day’s brought him, but he’s cornered by his linemates before he gets out of the tunnel.

“Niji!” says Walker. “Good to see you, Stranger.”

“Yeah,” says Enbar. “Where have you been?”

“With the coaches?”

“No, all fucking summer, man. I drove by your house a few times but your car was gone; you were a no-show at Roy’s barbecue—”

“I had family shit,” says Shuuzou. “Been staying in the city.”

“Ooh, look at this city slicker,” says Walker. “Everything okay?”

(Is it? What can he say? What should he say?)

Shuuzou shrugs. “It’s getting there.”

“I feel you, man,” says Enbar. “Not too sophisticated to hit up Hobby’s with us, eh?”

Shuuzou snorts (he wants to get home, but—it’s so good to be back; Tatsuya will get it).

“He might get lost on the way there.”

“Ha fucking ha.”

Five seconds and they’re shoving each other around like they’re twenty-five, and it’s like something Shuuzou can’t even describe. It’s a different kind of warmth than when he’s with Tatsuya, something that weighs less on his shoulders even with the C slapped on his chest. He texts Tatsuya after he slams the car door shut; Tatsuya texts him back a _have fun_ almost immediately.

It’s pretty fucking good to chill out, just the three of them; they talk about hockey but also about their lives, Walker’s kids and Enbar’s weeks spent back home on the family farm and Shuuzou living in the city. They don’t pry too hard into it; if they did Shuuzou’s not sure what he’d say (they know Tatsuya; they’d piece it all together pretty quick and it’s not that he doesn’t want them to know it’s just—easier, the fewest people they’re out to). It’s good to talk and shoot the shit and eat; it leaves Shuuzou feeling better, looser than he had been after practice, still pretty drained but good enough that even the gnarled bridge traffic isn’t enough to get him down.

The apartment is dark and quiet when he gets in; he tries not to make too much noise but Tatsuya rolls over on the bed when he gets in, smiling in the half-light.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah,” says Shuuzou. “Good first day back.”

“I’m glad,” says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou kisses his forehead; in the air conditioning and under the covers Tatsuya’s body’s warm.

“How was PT?”

“Same,” says Tatsuya, nestling closer as if to avoid the conversation, and for tonight Shuuzou lets him.

* * *

The ever-present fixture of sports talk radio is humming at a lower volume in their apartment; it’s not apparent at first but there’s a few more words Shuuzou can’t pick out. He doesn’t say anything, not to avoid the inevitable CTE joke from Tatsuya, but because it has, because through the usual chatter of football and baseball and even preseason hockey and Olympic chatter, there’s a rising buzz, the name “Knicks” more and more often. Shuuzou’s got it on in the car; he can hear them talking about Tatsuya’s absence, the retirement they assume he’s in, and he hopes Tatsuya’s not listening then, that he’s on the phone or at the grocery store. And he burns with anger and annoyance, the callousness of it all.

This is what comes from being famous; this is the result of being an athlete in New York, the guy who’d brought back a championship to the Knicks for the first time in God-knows-how-many years. But that doesn’t mean it should be; that doesn’t mean they should say shit about Tatsuya, not when he’s hurting. It’s not going to help.

Tatsuya’s going to physical therapy every day, still; he drives Shuuzou to one of the preseason games and his knee’s not bothering him more than usual, though it doesn’t escape Shuuzou how many Advil Tatsuya’s popping before they even hit the tunnel. He massages Shuuzou when he’s sore and sometimes that leads to sex; maneuvering around Tatsuya’s knee is less and less of a concern. But still, the basketball camps are starting up; Taiga’s at his and he looks so tired and happy when he Skypes Tatsuya that Shuuzou’s grip tightens around Tatsuya’s waist and Tatsuya withdraws afterward, turning away from Shuuzou’s touch, staying quiet. It’s easy for Tatsuya to pretend everything’s okay until it’s really, really not, and even then he’s still putting up this kind of façade, even with Shuuzou. But Shuuzou’s tired, too; there’s only so much force he has left to push against Tatsuya’s walls.

He drives Tatsuya out to the Rockaways the day before the Devils’ opener; he’s got to be at the airport to head down to Tampa in the early evening but there’s a hell of a lot of time between then and now, and they won’t get enough time together in the next week. It’s pretty obvious Shuuzou’s hovering, but Tatsuya doesn’t push him away or close himself off. Maybe it’s just because Shuuzou’s not asking, just dropping his arm around Tatsuya’s waist where they sit in the sand. It’s a piss-poor substitute for LA, and even if it doesn’t remind Tatsuya of another city, another time, it’s still relaxing, the sound of the waves, the surfers, the clouds heavy with rain above them.

“Think you’re going to win tomorrow?” says Tatsuya.

“Yeah, course,” says Shuuzou.

“Guarantee it?”

Shuuzou wrinkles his nose. “No guarantees, but we’ll do it. Say, what do you think of the final roster?”

“Well,” says Tatsuya, pursing his lips. “I think the coaching staff should have given Morrow a better chance. Kid’s not going to do much more than he has already in juniors. And you guys should have signed Montes; you need more physical D.”

“Don’t I fucking know it,” says Shuuzou. “Couldn’t find him a partner, though; chemistry’s—well, when someone gets injured and everyone gets shuffled it’s not going to be as big of a deal, but. You know.”

Tatsuya shrugs. He’s looking out at the water, bare feet half-buried in the sand, black and tan grains sticking to the edges. The salty air is blowing his hair slightly out of place; the exhaustion is etched on his face against his summer tan. Shuuzou wants to kiss all of it away, but it’s never that easy. He wants to ask, how can he help? But what is he trying to help with, a general feeling? And what does Tatsuya want, other than a miraculous perfect recovery? Their knuckles brush each other in the sand, grains and salt sticking between them, and Shuuzou wants to get back to the car, sit Tatsuya on the tailgate and blow him in the parking lot.

* * *

Shuuzou drives Tatsuya to physical therapy the day after he gets back; he’s sore and exhausted and it feels worse when the Devils are 0-2-1 to start the season, but there’s no optional today and it’s been too fucking long. They used to go weeks without more than casual contact, sexting from respective hotel rooms or quiet phone calls when they were both up with pain or taking care of younger teammates. He’s got another appointment with the surgeon next week, to talk about scar tissue and next steps, but from the way Tatsuya’s walking it doesn’t seem likely (longer recovery time is supposed to be good for some things, but probably not this).

It takes him a while to find parking, snaking out some old lady in a Chrysler convertible who looks like she’s about to curse him out, but it’s a welcome diversion, well-practiced motions of a tight parallel park, to eat up some of time during Tatsuya’s appointment, like playing with the puck in the neutral zone on the PK.

And that just gets him thinking about everything again, the shorty they’d given up last night after the Caps had put the game away, the fumble in OT that had lost them the lone close game, both goalies already left out to dry. Maybe they should have had a required practice today; maybe they should at least have something. Shuuzou thumbs through text messages with his teammates, dumb shit and chirping each other; chemistry isn’t really the issue (though a couple of the younger guys are keeping to themselves; Shuuzou fires off a separate text to each of them asking if they’re doing okay). But you can have all the chemistry in the world and still turn out shit performances, still do everything wrong (does it matter if you connect on your passes if you turn the puck over or whiff on your shots?) and get the kind of results that doing shitty should yield. It’s early in the season and you have to create your own luck, and yet. Shuuzou doesn’t realize he’s glaring even more than usual until the barista at Starbucks almost flinches back before asking for his order.

Tatsuya drops into the seat across from him, maybe fifteen minutes after his session should have ended. His walk isn’t much stiffer than usual, but his face is a little more visibly strained. His palm is sweaty when it meets Shuuzou’s under the table, his fingers warmer than usual, and probably red (not quite the red of the Devils cap pulled over his forehead, but pinker than the undertones of his skin usually yield). Shuuzou squeezes his hand, wordlessly offering out his latte. Tatsuya shakes his head.

“I’ll get my own.”

He seems in no rush to get up; Shuuzou doesn’t want to make him. “I should get a refill.”

“I’ll get it for you,” says Tatsuya, dropping Shuuzou’s hand and pushing himself up, hands on his thighs.

He looks like he wants to grab the table but he doesn’t, picking up Shuuzou’s cup instead and turning to walk, maybe quicker than he should, over toward the display case, the flickering light over the unappetizing selection of coffee cakes and breakfast sandwiches (Shuuzou’s had to stomach the ham and chorizo varieties on occasion, airports and drive-thrus and times when his calorie count is way too damn low). Shuuzou watches him order, the curve of his mouth as he smiles at the barista and the way she giggles back, and Shuuzou’s charmed himself from back here, even though he sees the weight with which Tatsuya’s leaning on the counter, the strain in his arm, the residual stiffness in his legs, how tense his whole body becomes with the pain. Shuuzou’s jacket is draped over the back of his chair; that ought to be enough when the place isn’t packed. He gets himself up, too fast and his back complains, but he knows how to ignore that shit. He meets Tatsuya at the bar, grips his shoulder (tense as hell). Tatsuya glances up; it’s hard to tell if it’s stress or pain or annoyance he’s showing.

“Grande whole milk latte refill for Tatsu? And I have two mobile orders for Chris!”

Shuuzou takes the latte down from the bar; even with the sleeve jammed on it’s hot on his fingertips. “Thanks.”

Tatsuya inclines his head, a slight smile. His americano’s out next, and he jerks his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

“Okay,” says Shuuzou.

Another fistful of OTC painkillers and half his drink later, Tatsuya settles in for a nap. His knee’s a little swollen, a little less than usual (maybe, hopefully, or maybe it’s just Shuuzou’s mind playing tricks on him and seeing what it wants to see); the white scars from the surgeon’s knife stand out angry against his skin. He’s far enough asleep that Shuuzou can pat his good knee without worrying about waking him, look at his hair fanning out against the pillow, a bit overdue for a trim. Shuuzou pulls the covers over the both of them; there’s no practice or game today but it’s not like he’s got an overstock of sleep going on and it’s been too long since he could enjoy the feeling of midday murkiness, falling asleep next to Tatsuya’s even breathing.

* * *

Naps like that are even nicer on game days, after Shuuzou’s morning practice and the easy midday drive back, when Tatsuya’s done with PT and their quick hockey talk peters out, the coffee’s drained from their mugs and Shuuzou’s yawning right on schedule. He links his fingers with Tatsuya’s under the covers, brushes his lips over the back of Tatsuya’s neck and tries not to think so much about how heavy the shitty win-loss record feels around his shoulders, like a yoke for a lone ox. He’s not in this alone; he leans on his teammates as much as he can—but. This kind of thought isn’t going to help him fall asleep.

He thinks instead about Tatsuya playing ball again, Tatsuya recovering from the last knee injury, slow going even though he’d been pushing against what the doctors had told him, going farther, doing more reps. It hadn’t backfired until it has, but Shuuzou’s not going to think about that game; he’s going to think about Tatsuya back when they’d first met, Tatsuya who’d held the key to a completely different world, the fast breaks and post moves of basketball, the hours he’d spent teaching Shuuzou to dunk, the few times Shuuzou had gone to see him when they were both in town and Shuuzou hadn’t had a game, the pace of the game from courtside seats, the dunk Tatsuya had thrown in for him, the vertical Tatsuya had always used for jumpers, longer shots, high passes.

Shuuzou wakes up to an empty bed and the smell of food coming from the kitchen, grilled cheese and fresh coffee and a pile of bacon that’s been frying on the stove. Tatsuya’s knee looks okay; he looks okay when he turns to smile at Shuuzou; Shuuzou’s still half-asleep as he hugs Tatsuya from behind and surrounds himself in the smell of bacon fat and coffee.

“Pour you some,” says Tatsuya. “If you move.”

“Mm,” says Shuuzou, letting Tatsuya twist in his arms so he can come in to kiss him at a better angle, never mind his stale breath. “What if I want you?”

“You have work tonight,” says Tatsuya, something like satisfaction creeping into his voice.

“I’ll drink my coffee in the car,” says Shuuzou.

“Eat first.”

Shuuzou snags a couple of pieces of bacon from the pile, swearing at how hot they still are; Tatsuya smiles at the corner of his mouth and flips the sandwiches onto a plate. He only takes half of one, leaving the rest for Shuuzou, eating slow like he’s almost spacing out. He’s not; his toes are brushing Shuuzou’s ankles and when Shuuzou nudges his elbow he looks over, all innocent-like. He is fucking not. Their hands brush over the plate of bacon; Tatsuya’s gaze is steady on Shuuzou’s. The food can get cold.

The remains of the sandwich are still good on the way downstairs, out to the garage; Tatsuya offers to drive him and his knee’s okay enough (Shuuzou thinks back, only a few minutes ago, Tatsuya spreading his legs easy and drawing Shuuzou in again) that Shuuzou doesn’t think about giving any kind of protest. It’s easy traffic going up Riverside; the sun’s getting low over the river and the apartments on the Jersey side and even though they’re barely a month past the equinox it’s starting to get dark a little bit quicker than Shuuzou would like. It’s nothing like winter in northern Canada, fall up in fucking Edmonton or somewhere, but it’s not something Shuuzou’s happy about (he’ll take the cold weather, the snow and ice; it would be better if it didn’t come with less daylight). The radio’s on sports talk in the background; Tatsuya’s knuckles tense just a little bit when the host mentions the Knicks but he keeps the tuner there.

Pregame skate leaves Shuuzou feeling good and loose, and he’s feeling pretty good in general, the laces holding his skates tight against his feet and ankles, retaping his stick and pressing the tape down with the edge of an old puck in his locker, swapping out his old gloves for a newer pair he’s been breaking in during practice that feel pretty fucking comfortable without feeling like they’re about to shred on his palms and listening to the familiar sounds of hockey players chirping each other until they turn on him.

“You look happy, Captain. Get laid?”

“So what if I did? Better than you can get,” says Shuuzou, flicking some melted ice off his glove at Arvidsson’s face.

“Take that back, fucker, my girlfriend’s a babe.”

“What girlfriend? The one you just made up?”  says Walker.

The talk shifts away from Shuuzou and onto more pressing things, like the powerplay and whose fault those shorties in morning practice were. Shuuzou focuses on taping up his legs, tucking in his sweater (they’ll make him take it out, another dumb rule from the Bettman era that hasn’t been taken out because the union doesn’t want the owners to use it as CBA leverage and if they do they’ll concede it and pretend like that’s a defeat for them).

They stand out on the ice for the anthems, Shuuzou thinking more about the Winnipeg players than either national anthem, each burned into his brain as a kid catching NHL feeds at weird hours or watching whole games archived on streaming sites. Both coaches are starting the second lines today, Winnipeg’s big defensive center and two wings who have supposedly never reached their potential versus Shuu centering Walker and Enbar. All games are a challenge, but with the Jets’ hot goalie they’re going to be fucking doomed if they concede the first goal. Coach hadn’t said as much before the game, but he’d kind of hinted at it in that way of his that’s pretty easy to pick up on. It’s not a pleasant implication, but maybe one they need to hear.

The first period starts fast, shift to shift to shift, quick and clipped. Shuuzou has to shovel the ball into the offensive zone several times and just come off to watch the Jets come on fast and pull it back into the neutral zone, into the Devils’ zone. Shuuzou sighs from the bench; he gets another defensive zone start, another quick half-switch, another blocked shot.

They get a powerplay late in the second, a dumb takedown by one of Winnipeg’s third-pairing D that’s obviously tripping, even though he starts to argue with the ref right away. Shuuzou’s on screening duty on the powerplay; as soon as the Devils win the faceoff he skates back, in front of the goalie, checking behind him to see if he’s screening right. The puck goes out, around (why the fuck is Zubov faking backhand at the blue line?) and then back to the point, Fowler going forehand, faking, and then winding up. One of the Winnipeg guys surges forward, to try and push it out, but Fowler’s already let loose; the puck flies through the air and Shuuzou shifts to the side; the goalie shoves at him but Shuuzou doesn’t move away and the pick smacks into the back of the net over the goalie’s shoulder stick-side. They’ve struck; the sound of the goal horn is sweet and clear as Shuuzou piles onto his teammates at the point as the familiar sound of a particular drum beat kicks off over the loudspeaker.

That’s the kick in the ass Winnipeg needs to get into gear; the next shift they’re out there pressing, pressing, pressing; it takes Shuuzou too long to get the puck out of the zone, every try gets pushed back in and even when they’re regrouping to get onsides the pressure’s still coming off the ice like water vapor. But there’s not enough time left in the period for them to sustain it, and Shuuzou’s going to use the break in the action for all it’s worth, stare down the kids until they get their heads in the game, hit Fowler in the back of the head as a reminder not to get too cocky after that last goal, and retie his skates even tighter against his feet the way he always does before every third period.

“Go get em, boys.”

Sarcastic aye-aye, captains and other assents flow into Shuuzou’s ears; he makes sure to swear at some of the worst offenders the way they like best before stepping into line, dead last. They’d fucking better get the Jets.

They don’t score but they keep up the pressure; it seems like Shuuzou’s getting more and more offensive starts because there are way fewer defensive zone shifts to go around, the puck pressed backwards, behind the net or into the Winnipeg goalie’s chest or glove for another faceoff, scrums at the front of the net started by the Winnipeg players.

They pull their goalie with a minute forty left to play, a clearing try that actually works (can’t get them all); Shuuzou pokes the puck free when the guy he’s guarding tries to get a little bit too pretty with it and breaks away. He doesn’t have enough gas to take it all the way, but he can get far enough, deep in the neutral zone, to send the puck faster than anyone can skate to catch it before it hits the net. Two-zip, a minute and change, Winnipeg’s goalie back in. They’ve had worse meltdowns, but there isn’t one tonight; time passes too slow but the final siren sounds and the Devils have the shutout.

It's a decent win, one that looks better on paper than it had felt, but you can’t argue with two points and they need them like hell right about now. He’s got the usual crop of beat reporters in his face, tries to give the same canned quotes and just get dressed, rancid sweat still clinging to him (or maybe it’s just the damn locker room). His teammates are a little slower, Fowler embellishing how wonderful the goal was (the reporters are eating it up; Shuuzou rolls his eyes). He texts Tatsuya to pick him up in front of the train station; he’ll get lost the crowd of people headed back to the city and God knows where else, broad shoulders and a funny walk maybe but it’s cold for late October and people are tipsy and fuzzy from the win (especially those who are just getting started for the station now, spilling out of the arena and fucking around on Mulberry for a bit).

“Nice goal,” Tatsuya says.

“You gonna say that when I score on a goalie?” says Shuuzou.

“Maybe,” says Tatsuya.

The postgame show’s on low in the background, the color commentator describing the events in great detail before playing clips of the moments in the game; it takes a few seconds for Shuuzou to register them, fit them in with the game he’d just played, the way he’d seen it from the ice. He glances behind them; there’s a cab but it’s pulling out and Shuuzou leans over the console to kiss Tatsuya swiftly. Tatsuya pulls him in for a second longer by the shoulder of his suit jacket.

“You need another shower,” he says when he lets go, turning the ignition on and already shifting the steering wheel to pull out of the space.

“Fuckin’ locker room.”

It’s been longer than Shuuzou had realized since he’s heard Tatsuya’s laugh, a real one, sweet and clean.

* * *

Shuuzou never skips optionals, but he offers to on the day Tatsuya’s going in for his consultation. It’s also Tatsuya’s birthday, which depending on the way this goes—well. Either way, Shuuzou doesn’t want him to have to hear it alone.

“I’ll be okay,” Tatsuya says. “It’ll be boring for you, and, well.”

He’s hinting at the continued slog of the season, the ship half-righted until it capsizes all over again, A month in and slightly below the middle of the pack isn’t the worst place to be, but it’s easier to keep ahead when you’re ahead from the get-go, and they should be doing better. They’ve won; they’ve kept games closer; it’s not something Shuuzou can blame on a particular thing, some kind of root cause. It’s just a collection of small things that weighs him down as captain all the same, little hitches that stick onto his sweater like heavy burrs.

It's better to not be distracted by Tatsuya’s verdict, though it does seem like a sentencing, the deliberation of a jury to reach answers—can Tatsuya play again? Should he? How much?—and he’s so sick of thinking about it, so worried, that he goes harder, practices longer, leads the team in suicides that the rookies start out complaining and are too winded to talk halfway through. They drag themselves off the ice; Shuuzou could make up some bullshit that winning should be muscle memory like this, mindlessly dragging their skates through the ice. The coaches look approvingly at Shuuzou, as if hard work overcomes everything, as if the key to winning more games, scoring more goals and blocking more shots, is in doing this kind of thing. It’s too simplistic; hard work is part of the equation but it’s not going to be a simple cure-all. Or maybe it is; maybe this is the start to a ten-game winning streak, Shuuzou’s teammates so pissed off and determined not to have their captain work them through this kind of slog that things start to click. Whatever.

Shuuzou buys a large cup of coffee at the nearest Wawa and guns it down the turnpike the other way, toward the bridge. He flicks on the radio to traffic; there’s delays on the upper level both ways but he can still take the lower. The heavy fog that had settled in in the morning has lifted some; the sky’s still overcast but outside the window Shuuzou can still see the river below him, both sides down a decent distance, trees with all their leaves green and apartments built so they’re teetering over the edge (when the sea levels rise, Shuuzou thinks—not the developer’s problem, but still). It’s a nice day to drive down Riverside when he gets off, quiet and mostly clear of traffic; it’s rained a bit here since he’d left but the roads aren’t too slick. He turns off at 79th, bypassing the construction workers slacking off, and goes down to West End, staying on the road until it turns into Eleventh and he turns off to get to the garage. He leaves all his crap in the car, coffee aside, trying not to imagine Tatsuya happy because that might fucking jinx it.

Tatsuya’s not home, and that’s all the answer Shuuzou needs; there’s no notifications on his phone, nothing on social media. Shuuzou’s not going to settle in for a nap; he’s got to be here when Tatsuya gets back; Tatsuya needs him even if he doesn’t think he wants Shuuzou right now. Or maybe that’s a lie Shuuzou tells himself, but Tatsuya’s less independent than he feels like he has to be; he can’t admit it to himself that it’s okay to be like that. God knows Shuuzou relies on him, in ways he never thought he would but ways that don’t make him weak. He dozes off on the couch, legs up on the coffee table, thinking about that, about Tatsuya’s stubbornness, about how much his back is going to hurt tomorrow after sitting like this, and he’s not sure how long he’s out when he hears the soft click of the key in the top lock, the smack of the bolt opening, and then the bottom lock after that. Shuuzou sits up, running a hand through his hair and trying to look like he hasn’t just slept however long and he doesn’t feel stiff and sore and ready to go the fuck back to sleep.

It’s a cold day; Tatsuya’s hands are buried in the pocket of his hoodie and one side of the string’s a little bit bunched up. He looks at Shuuzou, steady; Shuuzou looks back and jerks his head for Tatsuya to come over and sit with him.

“It’s too fucked up,” Tatsuya says, before he even sits down. “The tear was too big; the scars are too big; they want me to come back in the spring to see about more surgery, but. Low chance I’ll ever play again, none this year.”

What a fucking birthday present. Shuuzou leans over, straining his back; it’s awkward to hug each other sitting like this but like Shuuzou gives a shit. Tatsuya slumps into his arms, too tired and sad to say anything, to shove Shuuzou off. There’s nothing to say, no false promises of it (whatever it is) getting better. The future’s a blank page, torn to shreds; there are probably options but—why talk about them now? Shuuzou threads his fingers through Tatsuya’s, brushes his thumb over Tatsuya’s knuckles.

“I’m not giving this up,” Tatsuya murmurs into Shuuzou’s shoulder.

“Tatsuya,” says Shuuzou, and Tatsuya pulls back, looking at Shuuzou like how can he not?

“I know,” says Shuuzou.

Tatsuya sighs, his fingers curling around the edges of Shuuzou’s t-shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” says Shuuzou.

* * *

Taiga swings by on a road trip early, hitting up the Knicks and then the Nets. He offers them tickets, but Shuuzou’s got games both nights. Tatsuya goes to the Nets game on his own, not quite courtside, but by the time Shuuzou gets back he and Taiga have already exchanged some somewhat-contentious words. Taiga won’t say what happened and Tatsuya’s pretending to be asleep, so Shuuzou just assumes. There’s a grey area, Tatsuya getting recognized (how could he not?) or maybe shown on camera, Taiga saying the same shit about retirement and giving up, Tatsuya twisting his words. It’s hard for Shuuzou to not just be angry for Tatsuya’s sake, to feel his pain, to see Taiga as someone who doesn’t get it, but Taiga gets it as much as Shuuzou does; he’s known Tatsuya way longer than Shuuzou has.

They all avoid the subject in the morning, Tatsuya promising to put Shougo up when he comes by if he wants it, sticking to headlines in the news about environmental law and unemployment (politics, less contentious than basketball in this house). Tatsuya stays more withdrawn, a gun-shy shellfish placed down in the sand that won’t quite bury itself, but he unwinds bit by bit as the week wears on. Everything is still touchy with him, though; if Shuuzou asks the wrong thing Tatsuya will clamp down with sharp teeth; there are some things worth discussing and arguing but Shuuzou’s too tired and worn down too much of the time.

They go to a Riveters game in late November together; it all goes well until the second intermission (the Rivs are winning; Tatsuya’s not in much pain and he’s actually enjoying himself).

“Are you Himuro?” It’s some loudmouth kid in a Rangers jersey; Shuuzou wants to step between him and Tatsuya but doesn’t.

“Yes,” says Tatsuya, staring right back at him.

“You retired yet? Like, officially?”

“I’m not on the payroll,” says Tatsuya. “But no, I’m not retired.”

The kid gives him a very dismissive look, and Shuuzou can feel Tatsuya tensing up a little bit more.

“Whatever,” says the kid, muttering something about old men as he jogs off to meet his buddy with a tall boy in each hand.

Tatsuya’s playing with the hem of his sweater.

“Hey,” says Shuuzou.

“I’m fine,” says Tatsuya, stress creeping into his voice like a guitar string stretched too taut. “Let’s get drinks.”

* * *

Shuuzou’s starting to feel a step behind, like age or something is catching up to him; he stays in bed longer and feels more tired; his morning coffee morphs into a redeye and then a blackeye, carried into the garage from Starbucks, half-gone before he reaches the bridge. He feels sluggish, bogged down on the ice; there’s nothing in particular, not the shoulder nagging him, no weird shit in his head, nothing else, just a feeling that something’s wrong. Maybe it’s everything he can’t shake off, the stalled sale of the house (he doesn’t need the money, but he just wants it gone) and dealing with Tatsuya, even more mercurial and snappish than usual, the length of the days shrinking and the time he wants to sleep growing and all that kind of bleary tiredness that’s never gotten to him all that much before, but on top of everything else it tips the bucket over.

Shuuzou takes extra shots after practice because he can’t fucking get them off; he pedals on the stationary bike with the injured guys like that’s going to up his leg stamina in time for tonight’s game. He’s got two missed calls when he gets out of the shower, both from the realtor, probably another false hope, another young couple pulling out at the last second because they found another house or because one half had dug in their heels or because their credit’s shit.

“Yeah,” he says, when the realtor picks up after the first ring.

“We’ve got a bid; we’re going to close first thing. The buyer is so excited to get this house; it’ll go through this time for sure.”

That’s what she’d said the last two times, but this time she actually sounds confident. “Let me know when it does and what I have to do.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

And maybe it’s false hope, but it’s lifting Shuuzou’s mood and he can’t argue with that right now, not with a fresh cup of coffee in the car or the radio playing 90s country hits, a direct influence from some of his teammates.

The apartment’s quiet when he gets back but Tatsuya’s there, watching some soapy TV show with the sound and subtitles off. He waves to Shuuzou when he gets in, but doesn’t say anything. Shuuzou glances at his knee out of habit, but Tatsuya’s wearing jeans today and he’s seated in a normal position. Maybe this is one of his better days.

Maybe thinking that jinxes it.

“How was practice?” Tatsuya says.

“Usual,” says Shuuzou. “Sold the house.”

“Really?” says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou nods. “She seems more confident, anyway.”

“Are you sure you want to sell it?” Tatsuya says, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off his jeans.

“A bit late to ask that, eh?” says Shuuzou, but Tatsuya doesn’t smile; his shoulders close as if he’s nervous. “I’m not moving back.”

“What if you want to? What if this was a bad idea?” Tatsuya says, waving with a hand, gesturing to the two of them, the coffee table, the old newspapers by the foot of the couch.

“What?” says Shuuzou.

“You moved in thinking I’d get better and I didn’t. I’m fucked up; I can’t play basketball; I’m an asshole up front because of it and I make you frustrated all the fucking time. And it’s not going to get any better. This is the best you’re going to get from me, and it’s—you deserve something better, something good, someone who makes you feel good, someone who’s not just going to take when you keep giving.”

Tatsuya won’t take much, but that’s beside the point—that’s nowhere near the point, actually, the way Tatsuya’s cheeks are blotching red, the way his breath is coming uneven, his hands clenched and knuckles white, all the things he’d said.

“Tatsuya,” says Shuuzou. “Hey.”

Tatsuya looks up, tight and tense like the way he’s wound around himself, a snake tying its own body in knots and bows like boy scout rope.

“This isn’t your best. Maybe it feels like it is, but—it’s not.”

Shit, that’s not how he wanted that to come out; that’s not how he’d meant it, but it’s in the air now and Tatsuya’s even tenser, more defensive, the top D on the 3-on-5 but this isn’t one of them against the other; this isn’t a game or a competition.

“You feel like shit; I know. And like it’s never going to get any better as long as you’re away from basketball like this, but—I know it sucks. It’s hard to deal with, and I know that to an extent, maybe not totally firsthand, but. People telling you you’re done, you have to retire—I’m not saying that. But you can’t just sit here all day and think about it; you can’t just resign yourself to being stuck here and let it loop back around on itself and not try.”

“I am trying!”

“You’re trying something you know might not do anything; you’re trying to get things back to where they were before and they might not get there.”

“Then you are telling me to retire.”

“No, I’m telling you that you might want to think about something else other than basketball and wanting to play basketball.”

“It’s not that easy, Shuu.”

“I know it’s not, but—you’re not trying. I’m not saying file your retirement papers or swear off basketball or stop training your knee or looking into opportunities; I’m saying do other shit. Write a blog. You’re cleared enough for exercise; play golf at the pier or something. Do things that aren’t basketball-related; get out of the house; whatever. It’s not like basketball won’t let you back in because you stopped thinking about it for a second.”

“I do get out! I shop; I come to your games,” says Tatsuya.

“Tatsuya,” says Shuuzou.

Tatsuya looks at him, a mixture of annoyed and angry and weary and fucking miserable, emotions Shuuzou would be able to see even if Tatsuya was keeping up his usual façade.

“I don’t want this to be like me against you; I don’t want you to feel this way and I don’t want to feel this way. We’re a team, right?”

Tatsuya doesn’t answer.

“So lean on me. Let me help you; give me your burdens. You’re not weak if you need help, especially with something as big as this, you know? If you need anything—even if it’s nothing I can do, if you need to get out of the city for a bit, if you need to talk to a professional or someone else because it sucks talking to me when I’m still out here playing—please. Tell me; let me in.”

“Shuu,” says Tatsuya; his cheeks are even redder now.

“I love you, and I worry,” says Shuuzou. “I worry about you even when there’s no reason to, so please.”

“I’m sorry,” says Tatsuya, and Shuuzou leans across to pull him into his lap.

“No need,” says Shuuzou, and at that Tatsuya gives a half-sob, half-hiccup.

His eye is still dry, squeezed shut, a wall against Shuuzou’s best try—but maybe not so much anymore; he lets it open and he’s clearly tearing up; Shuuzou pushes back his bangs to see his dead eye, his face as a whole picture, and Tatsuya almost flinches back but doesn’t. stays steady. Shuuzou kisses the part of his forehead that’s usually hidden and Tatsuya shakes again, as if with a cough. This moment isn’t everything; it’s not even a concrete promise. But it’s a start, a place farther than either of them has stepped since the injury, way too long overdue.

* * *

Improvement isn’t instantaneous; it’s not like all of a sudden they’re going to be totally open with each other and Tatsuya’s going to be cheerfully not playing basketball (that’s not likely to happen ever, in the scheme of things). It comes and goes, forward and back, a ferry rocking in slightly-rough surf, a three-period game against Tatsuya’s misery now in double-OT. Sometimes they’re pinned back; sometimes they push forward, and it feels more like it’s the two of them on the same line.

Tatsuya signs up for skating lessons twice a week, says he has to relearn with his knee like it is. Shuuzou’s not sure if that’s really true, but maybe since Tatsuya learned so late it is. And even if it’s not he’s glad Tatsuya’s committed to some sort of physical activity, one that might be a little rough on his knees, but—if his body can handle it, if he learns the right way, then maybe. The rink’s in Long Island City, but right near a train stop; Shuuzou figures the long trip ought to do him good as long as he’s not looking up his own press on the train ride (though he trusts Tatsuya won’t).

Shuuzou picks him up when he can, when he doesn’t have a game overlapping and he’s in town; he’s back late after a practice and drawing out game plans with the coaches and assistant captains and Tatsuya’s texted him that he’s leaving a little bit early so not to bother. Shuuzou’s cell phone rings; the number’s unidentified but that could mean anything (telemarketer, agent trying to poach him, someone with a new number, the front office—although it’s not a Jersey area code).

“Hello?”

“Is this Shuuzou Nijimura?”

“Yes,” says Shuuzou.

“Mike Williams.” The GM of the Sharks—Shuuzou’s got a no trade clause, though.

“Yes?”

“It’s an Olympic year, as you know.” And he’s the GM of Team USA, right; Shuuzou exhales quietly.

“Yes. Calgary.”

“Exactly. Anyway, congratulations, Nijimura. You’ve made the roster; you’re an assistant captain. I know you’ve played for Team USA before, but you should be very proud.”

“Wow. Thank you, I am.”

“Great. Anyway, we’ll email you out some more details, and please don’t hesitate to call me at this number if you’ve got any questions.”

“Sure, thanks.”  
The line goes dead. Olympics. He’s going to the Calgary Olympics; he’ll be an assistant captain—he played in the last Olympics, sure, and World Cups and IIHF Worlds before that, but still. The A on his chest, huh? Hell yes, that’s something to be proud of. Yeah, it’s the middle of the season and he’s had enough carbs today, but Shuuzou grabs a beer from the fridge. He’s half-done by the time Tatsuya gets home, walking normal, skate bag dropped in the foyer but Shuuzou doesn’t give a shit about arguing that right now.

“Guess who’s an assistant captain for the Olympics?”

“Oh, Shuu!”

Tatsuya embraces him, hands cold from the January air around the small of his back. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Shuu,” Tatsuya sighs, and Shuuzou grins, kissing his neck.

* * *

Tatsuya’s skating class is for adult beginners, a few levels below where Tatsuya is, or where he was before all this shit happened with his knee. Shuuzou had taught him, from where he was wobbling more nervously than he’d like to make known around the rink, to skating with confidence, pushing himself to go faster and braking right in front of Shuuzou, showering his skates with snow and smirking. He’d taught Tatsuya how to handle a stick and puck, and for someone who had barely thought of hockey until his early twenties he’d gotten pretty fucking good.

Shuuzou gets there before the class ends (it’s hard to time traffic when he has to drive all the way out to Queens), sitting in the front of the bleachers with high school hockey kids waiting for free skate and kids waiting for their parents, pretending to do their homework but actually texting. Tatsuya’s skating well, faking more confidence than he has, leaning his weight on his good side. The teacher barks at him for that; he looks back at her and corrects it for a bit. Shuuzou leans back. Some of Tatsuya’s classmates are teetering around; some of them are gliding more smoothly. Tatsuya’s definitely near the top, a ridiculous thing to be proud of but Shuuzou is, nonetheless.

He thinks about skating with Tatsuya, the last time they’d done it; they hadn’t been all that much younger a couple of years ago but it had felt like it. The teacher blows her whistle; the group of adults make their way back over to the benches, one younger woman hopping over the boards like a pro. The glass is down in Shuuzou’s section; some of the parents come over to admonish their children. Tatsuya’s one of the last over; Shuuzou waves at him and Tatsuya smiles back, coming to a neat stop right in front of him on the ice.

“Open skate’s next?”

“Now, actually,” says Tatsuya. “I think we went a little over.”

“I got a pair of old skates in the back of the car if you’re feeling up to staying a bit longer,” Shuuzou says.

“Course,” says Tatsuya.

“Just give me five,” says Shuuzou, and he wants to lean a little farther over and kiss Tatsuya or at least brush aside some of his sweaty hair.

Tatsuya’s waiting for Shuuzou on the bench when he gets back, watching him tie his laces and bumping his shoulder every so often as if to tell him to hurry up so they can get back out there. It’s not a game or a practice or even hockey at all, but the ritual of lacing up his skates a certain way is so ingrained into Shuuzou that he can’t not do it like that. A couple of teenagers in busted-up figure skates sit down beside them, insulting each other in Spanish. Shuuzou shakes out to his shoulders and gets to his feet; he’s not even on the ice yet but it always feels better to be in skates than to be in shoes. He pushes himself over the boards; Tatsuya follows and they skate off. Tatsuya lets Shuuzou drag him around a little bit before getting a huge head start on a footrace that Shuuzou wins, in part because he smacks into the boards instead of trying to stop. That seems to be about Tatsuya’s reach, the hour of class and then that; he doesn’t act like he wants to leave but he’s a little bit slower, a little bit more deliberately favoring his other knee.

“Hey, aren’t you Nijimura?”

Shuuzou braces himself, but no one around them seems to have noticed. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” says the kid who’d asked him, maybe thirteen at the oldest (though she is wearing an Islanders hoodie). “Good luck at the Olympics. Rest up when you play the Isles next week.”

Shuuzou snorts. “Can’t promise you anything on that front, Kid.”

“Eh, well,” says the kid, and skates off; she’s got a short stride but not bad all in all.

“Fans, huh?” says Tatsuya.

“Tell me about it,” says Shuuzou.

He’d grumble more, but Tatsuya’s smiling at him, tired but bright like the moon through a telescope.

“Let’s go,” says Shuuzou.

* * *

Hockey doesn’t make SportsCenter too often, but it does the morning after Tyler Leigh, the US Olympic team captain, smashes his elbow into the boards behind the net. Shuuzou’s still shoveling cereal into his mouth in front of the TV as the announcers intone that he’ll be out twelve weeks, maybe back before the playoffs, certainly not for the Olympics.

“What does this mean for the US Olympic team?” says one of the hosts.

“I just don’t know,” says her partner, leaning forward in concern (Shuuzou’s pretty sure he doesn’t know what a faceoff is, but whatever).

There goes half their top-pairing D; that’s what that means. They’re pretty stacked there, but losing a perennial Norris candidate is nothing to sneeze at, especially since the Finns and the Russians are even more loaded there to begin with. It’s just one tournament, but it’s the fucking Olympics, and it’s just gotten that much tougher. Shuuzou’s phone vibrates on the table; he doesn’t know Leigh that well (they’d played together at the last World Cup and the all-star game the year Shuuzou had made it, but not otherwise) but he should send him a text.

The notification from his phone is a text from the Olympic team coach, Rogers, who’s also the coach of the Anaheim Ducks. _Give me a call ASAP_. Shuuzou frowns; this can’t be good.

He fires off the well-wish to Leigh, and then hits the call button for the coach.

“Nijimura, hi. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” says Shuuzou. “It’s early for you out on the west coast, isn’t it?”

“I’m always up early. Tough shit about Leigh, too.”

“Yeah,” says Shuuzou. “Just saw it on SportsCenter. Puts us in kind of a jam.”

“We’ve got deep reserves. I’ll move up Voloschuk; I know him well enough and he’ll fit in. Anyway, as you know, Leigh was the captain, and we need someone else to wear the C.”

Shuuzou’s grip loosens on the phone; this could be a bunch of things and he shouldn’t anticipate shit that’s not going to happen.

“We need someone who can hold a room accountable, with leadership experience, who can come in and take over expectations. And that would be you; all you have to do is say yes.”

“Yeah. Yes, of course. Thank you.”

“Great. See you in Calgary.”

Shuuzou looks down at the face of the phone, the hair gel smeared on it, the black of the screen. This isn’t anything new; he’s been captain of the Devils for several years; he was captain in college and in high school and middle school. But this is the fucking Olympics, the world stage. For all that Shuuzou’s embraced living in the US, getting citizenship, wearing these colors in international competition, he’s never felt particularly patriotic, but damn.

“Shuu? Everything okay?”

It’s like if he says it, it’s all going to turn out to be a mistake, a lie. They’ll choose Michaels or Chaves for captain, not him; they’d meant to all along.

“That was Rogers. Leigh’s hurt; they’re making me captain.”

Tatsuya whistles, long and low. “Captain America, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Congratulations,” says Tatsuya, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss Shuuzou’s cheek. “You’ve earned it, you know.”

“I know, but still. Damn.”

Tatsuya hums. “What happened to Leigh?”

“Elbow.”

As if summoned, the play comes up on the TV again, the smash.

“Yeah, he’s out,” says Tatsuya.

“We’re getting Voloschuk on D.”

“From Vancouver? Interesting.”

“What are our odds?”

“Better with you at the helm,” says Tatsuya.

If that news only did anything to lift the Devils. They’re still struggling to stay afloat, near the bubble; everyone’s on a cold streak and it’s like half the team is on break already. Shuuzou’s got interviews, a fucking _Sports Illustrated_ cover, things he didn’t know he’d have to deal with and he can’t complain about but still. He’s never given much weight to a player’s fame and reputation being a distraction before, but this almost is, praise for his leadership seeming pretty empty and hollow when he can’t lead the team he’s paid millions to play for to even a point in a 3-2 loss to the last-place Blue Jackets.

Every team has rough patches; Shuuzou deserves as much credit for the Devils’ recent deeper playoff runs as he does for this. But this is a rough patch that’s seemed to last all season, the same group of guys that had finished second in the Metro last year, a year older and a little more banged up but still. They should be more than slipping from a precarious hold on the last wild card, even if the season’s young.

At least Shuuzou tries not to read his own press; he skims the _SI_ article for accuracy and it’s bland but fine (they’d sent him an issue; Tatsuya wants it framed) but he runs across shit on the internet even when he doesn’t want to about guys like him who fight too much shouldn’t represent the country, quote-unquote real Americans (white and born in the Midwest, Shuuzou supposes) should be captains, so-called think pieces from people who don’t watch hockey at all outside the Olympics and have probably seen one or two clips of Shuuzou from his rookie year dropping the gloves and playing the enforcer, those early stat lines with the low plus-minus and high penalty minutes. That shit shouldn’t matter; reading it doesn’t make him wonder if it’s true or start to affect hi splay, but still. The break can’t come fast enough.

* * *

The last road game before the break is in Toronto; they have a game in Buffalo two days before in the afternoon, and they get to Toronto with enough time to catch the evening Raptors game. Most of Shuuzou’s teammates aren’t into basketball and the rest are too tired, but Shuuzou doesn’t mind. He forgets how much people in Toronto love hockey, though; as much as he loves playing for the Devils (and as wonderful as the relative anonymity being a pro hockey player living in Manhattan can be) it’s pretty cool to walk around and have people nod at him or ask him to sign their shit, even this close to the Olympics. He’d told Shougo to leave him a ticket, and it’s a nice one, almost courtside and pretty near where a few of the Leafs are sitting. They make small talk for a little bit, but Shuuzou’s glad when the game starts.

He’s grown to like basketball a lot more than he ever thought he would, but the bitterness of his middle school administration’s clear preference for the basketball team (and how they never fucking had to ask for money to get it, even though they already had gleaming uniforms and top-notch facilities and equipment for three fucking squads) has faded and dropped away, and he’d never thought he’d meet someone like Tatsuya. What Shuuzou really misses is watching Tatsuya play, but watching Shougo and the Raptors is awfully nice, too. Shougo’s got passion and a flare for the dramatic, a way of grabbing the crowd’s attention and support especially when he’s playing the role of the underdog villain. In a sea full of tattooed arms his stand out, especially vibrant; a lot of basketball players have some giant rocks in their ears but Shuuzou’s got more gold rings than should fit. His dunks have punctuation; his post moves have flair; his fouls are dramatic; even when he turns the ball over he’s got a way of wrenching away the attention of the crowd.

The Raptors dominate the Wizards and win 110-94; the score’s only so close because the Raptors have their scrubs in most of the last period and the Wizards don’t. It’s a pretty impressive showing, and Shuuzou tells Shougo that afterwards.

Shougo grins, flashing straight teeth. “I know.”

Shuuzou rolls his eyes. “Don’t get cocky, Kid.”

“You’re the one who said it,” says Shougo.

“Yeah, well.”

The wind bites at their faces as they make their way, toward some destination unknown to Shuuzou as of yet. The last few times Shuuzou’s been out here, Shougo’s taken him to some overly-fancy places, the kind in which Taiga’s thoughtlessly at home and Tatsuya acts self-assured. Shougo tries (he’s stopped giving a shit about perfect pronunciation at least), and the waiters tend to overlook his neck tattoos when they figure out he’s a basketball star and then when he breaks out the black card. It wouldn’t be Shuuzou’s first choice, but he’s not complaining; the food’s good.

Today Shougo leads him away from the fancier area, through a few narrower streets, to the front of an old bar, windows plastered with signs. It seems like an odd place when they’re dressed as they are, but Shuuzou trusts Shougo on his home turf. Shougo exchanges words with the guy out front, and they get waved in. The place is pretty crowded, mostly full of college kids eating wings and watching the Senators play the Habs on the bar TVs. Shougo leads them to the back, a short table and two wooden chairs right by the kitchen door.

“There a menu here?”

“I know it,” says Shougo. “Not much in the way of options.”

“What, wings and that’s it?”

“Pretty much. Fries, burgers, cheap domestic beer.”

Shougo flags down a bored-looking waiter as he attempts to escape in. “Two Labatts, extra-hot wings, extra celery.”

The waiter looks annoyed, but it’s maybe a minute and a half until two cold bottles of beer are placed in front of them. Shuuzou rolls up the sleeves of his shirt; it’s actually pretty warm in here.

“How’s Tatsuya?” Shougo says, blunt and to-the-point as usual.

“Better,” says Shuuzou. “Still feels pretty terrible, though, but I can’t blame him.”

“Knicks are boring without him,” says Shougo.

“Did you tell him that?” says Shuuzou.

“Nah, I don’t know whether he’d appreciate it or feel bad about not playing or both, so. I don’t know. Taiga’s pretty upset; they’ve been arguing about it again.”

“When’s he in the city next?”

“When you guys are in Calgary, he’s playing the Knicks. But he comes by again for the Nets a little bit later.”

“Shit,” says Shuuzou.

“Yeah,” says Shougo, with a shrug like, what can you do. “But maybe you’ll get knocked out early, when you play Canada in the first elimination, go visit him on the way back.”

“Ha, ha,” says Shuuzou. “They keep changing the format, though, who the fuck knows if we’ll even meet outside of round-robin.”

“Could be a nice final. Just like 2010.”

“Did you even watch those Olympics?”

“No, but I know about them.”

They sip their beers in silence; the low light catches Shougo’s hair, buzzed down and dyed black to the lowest root again.

“Congrats, though. Man, look at you, Olympic captain.”

Shuuzou grins. “I fucking know. It’s a pretty cool feeling.”

“Who’s cocky now,” says Shougo.

Shuuzou gets a selfie of the two of them waiting for a cab, collars of their coats turned all the way up. He sends it to both Tatsuya and Taiga; from the color of Shougo’s ears a few seconds later Shuuzou’s pretty sure Taiga’s sent him some sappy shit. It’s not like Shuuzou doesn’t get something back from Tatsuya, a simple _looks like fun_ , but Shuuzou grins at it anyway and texts back an affirmative.

* * *

There’s a home game right before the Olympic break, which they actually win 3-1 over the Islanders, sticking the Devils ahead of the Bruins and in the second-to-last wild card spot. Several of Shuuzou’s teammates, Enbar and Carter and Letourneau, are all headed to Calgary to play for their own countries, Enbar for Finland and the others for Canada. They’ve managed to pool their funds to charter a jet from Jersey to Calgary for themselves and their families; the only person Shuuzou’s bringing is Tatsuya.

He’s been to the summer games with Tatsuya, to watch him play basketball twice; both times he’s won gold. He hadn’t thought Tatsuya would ever get to see him at the Olympics; the composition of the teams is too variable and Shuuzou’s older and hockey is more of a grind—this isn’t the optimal situation, but they’re still making the best of it, and getting out of the city should be good for him (even if Calgary’s cold as shit).

Tatsuya’s familiar with some of Shuuzou’s teammates; they’ve all played golf together before and they’ve hung out outside of that, too, chilling at someone’s fucking huge suburban house on occasion with friends and friends of friends. Shuuzou’s never introduced Tatsuya as family, but maybe he doesn’t have to. Carter’s brought his aunt and his godfather as well as his wife and kids; Enbar has his siblings in from Finland; Letourneau’s just got all four of his kids, along with his ex-wife.

Letourneau’s kids are huge basketball fans; he’s mentioned that before now that Shuuzou thinks about it, but all four of them crowd Tatsuya immediately (none of them are Knicks fans; even the oldest who remembers living in Arizona prefers the Nets to the Knicks, but they’re still in awe of the local pro on an entire plane ride with them). Letourneau tries to apologize, but Tatsuya waves him off. He likes kids; he’s good with them; they aren’t giving him shit about the injury or retirement, only asking him if he’d really punched his teammate that one time and had he really gone to high school with Liu and Murasakibara.

Shuuzou’s gotten as used to flying as he’s going to be; he still hates it but he can tune out most of the engine sounds and the fears aren’t quite so pressing in his mind. He’s looking forward to sleeping a little if he can; some extra PM Advil and booze ought to do it, give him some rest before he has to face the immigration officials. Tatsuya sits back down next to him when he’s dozing off, covering him with a blanket. He says something, Shuuzou thinks to one of his teammates, but he’s slipping off to sleep too much to catch much more than the warmth in Tatsuya’s tone.

* * *

Shuuzou’s forgotten what playing on a team this good feels like; everyone’s worn down by the season but a shot at glory so soon, so quick, is enough to reenergize most of them. Shuuzou doesn’t have to do that much in the way of motivation; medals are motivation enough to get them to win two of the round robin games and lose the game to Canada (biased, if you ask Shuuzou, but they should have played well enough that bias didn’t make all the difference in the first place) in OT. They have one of the better records headed into elimination, and they knock out Russia with a decisive 4-1 victory, a goal and an assist from Shuuzou.

“Too bad there’s no fighting here; you could have gotten the Howe,” says Tatsuya.

“Not going to tell me good job?”

“Good job, Captain.”

Tatsuya makes several terrible jokes about serving his country while Shuuzou’s riding him, not enough to kill his boner but enough for him to lean down and kiss Tatsuya again until his back screams, which is maybe the point Tatsuya was going for.

Shuuzou hasn’t seen Tatsuya not smiling much on the trip, a thought he takes with him onto the ice as they warm up for the semifinal against Enbar and Finland. The Finnish goalie’s been lights-out all tournament; the skaters have been good but no one’s been scoring a lot or defending extra-hard. If they can get through, well. Every goalie’s got to break somewhere.

“Reason to smile, Captain?”

“Yeah, we’re going to win.”

“Pretty fucking good reason, then.”

Shuuzou’s inclined to agree, even if his other reason’s better, even if Tatsuya’s smile, however slight it gets (like a waning moon sometimes, always there even if it’s just a bright sliver) fills his thoughts more until it’s contagious. He wants to win; winning is a hell of a lot more fun than losing, and he also wants to make Tatsuya smile a little brighter tonight, closer to a full moon than a half. Maybe it’s kind of a dumb reason, but Shuuzou would like to think it’s not.

Finland scores on their first fucking shift; watching the other team on a breakaway from the bench is a horrible, helpless feeling; Shuuzou wants to squeeze his eyes shut and shout but he watches, the sweet wrister blocker-side that goes right where the goalie isn’t. Fuck. A one-goal lead isn’t insurmountable; Shuuzou gets sent out on a makeshift checking line for the next faceoff and they push back. But the shots aren’t going anywhere; the Finland goalie is seeing them all, and they end the first period with fourteen shots and down 1-0.

The second period starts out better, no goals and a powerplay for USA on a tripping call. Their shots have zip; they manage to stuff in an ugly rebound for a goal, though, but that makes Finland’s momentum start to roar. Shuuzou gets pinned back in his own zone, jostling for loose pucks along the boards before he’s slammed into them (bad shoulder, too, fuck) and he can’t even get off a few good chirps. Coach rests him a shift; he comes back out with guys he hasn’t been playing with but they manage to chip the puck ahead, keep possession in the zone for more than a few seconds, get a shot off. Reclaiming the momentum is a tricky business, and it doesn’t really start to click until the period’s about to expire.

They make it through the third still locked at one each; OT starts and it’s like Finland’s flipped the on switch again. They’re the ones pinning USA back; Enbar rips a rocket of a slapper over the glove-side shoulder of the American goalie and that’s it; that’s the game and that’s their shot at gold and glory.

“We fucked up,” Shuuzou says, but Tatsuya rubs his shoulder, his smile soft.

“You ran into a hot goalie and a competitive team. These aren’t series.”

“I know,” says Shuuzou. “We could have played that first shift better. Caught flat-footed.”

“You did good,” says Tatsuya. “You’ve still got a shot at bronze.”

It feels like a shitty consolation prize, even when Tatsuya offers to kiss it better. Tatsuya’s knee’s only slightly swollen as he falls asleep in Shuuzou’s USA Hockey practice shirt, a nice enough sight to start to ease the bitterness a bit.

It helps that the bronze game’s coming right up; there’s no time for them to rest and get upset; Shuuzou starts out pretending it doesn’t bother him but by the end of practice it really doesn’t, for the most part. They watch video of the Czech team, take a break to watch a period of the women’s finals, and turn in early for the night.

Everything goes right the next game, the kind of thing they should have had last time out but it’s too late to dwell, especially when they crowd on the ice for pictures with their bronze medals. Shuuzou’s pretty proud of his boys (and they really have started to feel like his) for going back out there and playing a hard sixty minutes, and, well, maybe bronze is worse than silver but it means he gets to end with victory sex so Shuuzou’s not going to complain too much.

* * *

Taiga and Tatsuya have made up most of the way, but when the Bulls come by to play the Nets Shuuzou sees some tension at first, until it eases and falls away like flower petals from a growing fruit. They’re both happy to see each other; both of them apologize even though everything’s already been forgiven. Taiga doesn’t bug Tatsuya about retirement or his knee; Tatsuya doesn’t get defensive when Taiga brings up basketball. They’ve had bigger fights and recovered from them, things that are a long way in the rearview mirror; Shuuzou knows that much. But it’s still good to see them patching it up, reinforced sturdy.

Shuuzou twists his ankle in the middle of March, not too badly but the trainers shut him down. The Devils are all but mathematically eliminated; they’d dealt their top points guy at the deadline for picks and they can afford to put Shuuzou on IR while they get a look at some of the prospects who have spent most of the year in the A. It’s logical, but that doesn’t mean Shuuzou has to like it; there’s only so much hockey you get a year and the summer’s going to be a long one, even if he’s got golf with Tatsuya this time around (unless it’s more surgery, but Shuuzou’s not so selfish to hope the doctors advise against it just for a few rounds at the driving range). But the travel this season’s been worse than usual, or at least it feels like it; staying home on the last road trip to hang out with Tatsuya isn’t a bad thing at all.

They watch the Isles on TV, beers in hand (and hey, getting off the fucking nutrition plan early isn’t a bad deal, either), insulting their shitty powerplay (how the fuck are they a playoff team like this?) and giving props where they’re due to their goalie’s flashy glove saves and their forwards, who at even strength seem to actually try a little harder. Tatsuya’s leg, knee still scarred all over but normal size, is propped up on the coffee table; Shuuzou pats it and Tatsuya doesn’t move it away. Their thumbs bump and then their hands slide together, locking into familiar position. The second intermission’s coming up; it’ll be pretty long.

* * *

Shuuzou forgets about Tatsuya’s surgery consultation until the morning it happens and Tatsuya calls that he’s off to the doctor. Shuuzou doesn’t think to ask which doctor; PT’s long-since been over and he’d had a checkup a while back. It takes a little bit longer for Shuuzou to think about the possible future surgery, the thing Tatsuya’s been banking on but pretending not to this whole time. It’s been about a year since the last surgery; it feels like longer and shorter simultaneously, like getting older (or getting hit in the head) is fucking with Shuuzou’s perception of time.

Shuuzou sends him a good luck text even though Tatsuya hates that shit; it’s something to do with his hands, some time to kill before he hears the answer. The Devils’ season is over; it’s only playoffs; ESPN on a weekday morning gets pretty boring pretty quick and Shuuzou shuts it off when the talking heads pretend to get incensed by some football player’s tabloid presence. He tries to take a nap for a little bit, but the coffee’s kicking in and so is the nervousness, pulsing and humming in the back of his mind in a way that doesn’t fade to white noise even in the sounds of the city through the open bedroom window. Shuuzou goes downstairs, takes a walk around, feels the cool April air blowing on his shoulders. He buys a sandwich and the paper at a bodega, pets the cat and talks to the guy behind the counter for a little bit, killing not enough time still.

Tatsuya gets back earlier than Shuuzou’s expecting; it could be good (he’s not going off to sulk and gather his thoughts) and it could be bad (got let out early with a simple dismissal). And then he sees the smile on Tatsuya’s face, brighter and fuller than he wants to show.

“Good news?” says Shuuzou.

Tatsuya nods. “If I get the same surgery again, they’ll remove some of the scar tissue and it’s got a better chance of healing right.”

He sits down on the couch, just the right opportunity for Shuuzou to cover his face in kisses.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya, pulling away after a minute. “Do you think I should?”

He knows what he’s going to do, just like the last time he’d asked that, under different circumstances but still expecting some kind of answer. Fuck trying to figure that out.

“I think you’re going to try it, regardless,” says Shuuzou. “But yeah, I want you to go for it. I want to see you play again.”

Tatsuya’s face breaks into a wider smile, and he pulls Shuuzou in for another kiss, sweet and slow.

“Thank you, Shuu. For doing all of this.”

“Hey,” says Shuuzou. “You’re welcome. As if I wouldn’t.”

This time it’s not one of them kissing the other, just a mutual agreement and the two of them moving in, their mouths meeting in the middle.

**Author's Note:**

> i used the webmd pages on meniscus tears to write about tatsuya's injury. 
> 
> can you tell i've been spending time in a car/near the water recently lmao
> 
> lmk if any errors as usual


End file.
